


Bethlam

by legolasbxtches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legolasbxtches/pseuds/legolasbxtches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They come to me in my sleep. The demons, the nightmares, they follow me through the living world and all I   can do is pretend. "They aren't real," The doctors say. But I am a doctor, too, and I know they're real. I know the  difference between reality and dreamland, and today, now, I know that this is all, complete, reality.</p>
<p> Journal of John H. Watson, M.D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not meant to be an actual description of any character, be it canon to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Gattiss/Moffat.

 

* * *

 

 

If you close your eyes

does it almost

_feel_ like nothing's

changed

at all

 

* * *

 

 

 

> 2am, 221B Baker St.
> 
> _3 days after the Fall_

He's been standing outside for four hours, not moving once. Mrs. Hudson had gone out to let him in the first night, but it was to no avail. He assured her he couldn't go inside, though he never took his eyes off the window Sherlock stood in front of to compose. The second night, he hadn't acknowledged her at all. Tonight she doesn't bother. She's asleep long before he leaves.

 

 

 

>  4:54pm, Buckingham Palace
> 
> _7 days after the Fall_

_  
_The last thing to enter the eldest Holmes's brother's hand, on his way home, was his umbrella. The rain hit the windows all too hard, and despite his lack of emotion, Mycroft began to hate the rain. It was always pounding; London streets dirtied with the sweat of the sky that encumbered everyone to long coats and raised collars, refusing to take an umbrella that would keep them dry. Refusing because Mycroft insisted that while Father was away, his word was law, and the much younger curly-haired Holmes brother would not dare stay in line while Father was away.

Mycroft put it back down on his desk, turning up his collar as he prepared for the oncoming wetness. 

"Sir?" Anthea protested, but only once, as Mycroft held up his hand towards her.  _How dare the sky let loose something that only dampens the earth, soiling the ground and flooding the area, left for someone else to clean up!_  

 

 

 

> 1pm, St. Bartholomew's Hospital, The Morgue
> 
> _28 days after the Fall_

_  
_She is used to this now. And she is kind, so she will say nothing. Even if it does bother her. Maybe one week later, a bit more, John comes into the mogue, asking if he can watch her work. He says nothing while she does her usual routine, and most of the time he isn't watching her at all--merely staring off into space.

"John?" She must know why he is there. There are better things for him to do with his time, and if she is to be entirely honest, he's bringing her down. Not to mention he is making it terribly difficult to keep Sherlock's secret. He doesn't answer her. She truthfully doesn't think he's heard her, so she goes over to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. "John?"

He looks at her then, his facial expression almost asking why she's disturbed whatever it is he was thinking about. He doesn't speak, only looks as if he is about to wail at her stirring him.

She lets him be.

 

 

 

> 1am, John's Flat
> 
> _32 days after the Fall_

_  
_He's positive he's heard Sherlock call to him from the living room, but quickly remembers he no longer lives with Sherlock. He gets up anyway, pushes open his bedroom door and sits in his armchair. He knows he wont fall back to sleep, and turns the telly on, only to find an old episode of _Magnum, P.I._

He watches despite his rule of never watching any crime-related show, and will not admit to how emotional he gets over it.

 

 

 

> 4pm, John's Flat
> 
> _67 days after the Fall_

_  
_Mrs. Hudson is visiting. She has brought him food, because she's heard Molly mention too often that John seems to be losing weight quickly. He nibbles at her braciole, and they are near silent throughout most of it.

When Mycroft knocks on his door, John insists Mrs. Hudson say he'd taken ill and couldn't host Mycroft. But they had planned the small get-together together, and John was not escaping it.

"John," Mycroft stands in the much-smaller apartment, sitting only when Mrs. Hudson insisted so.

"Why are you two here? You've got to have something better to do, Mycroft, like running the government." John snaps, anger too imminent on his tone.

"Please, John dear. We're just trying to help you." Mrs. Hudson coos, but her soothing effects do not work on him.

"You haven't been to therapy, John?"

"I have," He protests.

"Once does not count as continuous."

"I don't need therapy."

"You thought so before," Mycroft implies John's self-doubt before Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson leaves the room to make tea. She listens from the kitchen, and can easily be heard gasping as Mycroft continues, "John, we are all hurting right now. Even I, though I do say I have more reason to than anyone else. I am his brother after all."

"You were his arch-enemy," John interrupts.

"Which is simply his way of turning an affectionate term into a sour way of understanding; John please, don't be so obtuse. Why have you stopped seeing, what was it? Ella?"

John remains silent, brooding over something to say to Mycroft that will get him to understand. He takes a breath, and calls to Mrs. Hudson to ask when the tea will be ready, because he wants Mycroft gone. She tells him to be patient, and he thinks Mycroft should listen to that flyleaf of advice more than he himself should. "What can be said, Mycroft? What can she  _deduce_ from my current state? I am depressed because my best mate killed himself in front of me. There is nothing more to say on the subject."

John stands, tells Mrs. Hudson she may stay as long as she likes, and says no more to Mycroft. He slams his bedroom door behind him.

* * *

 

 

 

> [text] Status report? SH  
>  [text, unknown] Alive. Angry. Not eating well. M

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He does nothing at all, except for when we tell him to do something. He doesn't seem to be getting better or worse. He stares into space. Every now and then he'll speak, as if someone is there engaging him, but no one is. He screams in his sleep, and when asked he pushes it off as PTSD. I don't believe that is the case.
> 
> -Notes in the file of John H. Watson, M.D., written by Dr. Thomas Doyle.

* * *

 

Obsession, it takes control

Obsession, it eats me whole

 

* * *

  

 

 

> 3am, Dewer's Hollow
> 
> _121 days after the Fall_

Greg has not been to work in nearly four months. He left London on the promise of a job when he returns, though he doesn't know when that will be. He has not seen his children since Sherlock's death, either, as his (sortof)wife thinks it best to be that way. He spends most of his time in Dartmoor, at the vegetarian restauraunt he pretended to investagate for Sherlock. He is friends with the couple that ran it now, and they room him for next to nothing after hearing of Sherlock's death.

He likes the way it feels, the rush of pure adrenaline he had that night comes back to him still, each visit. Sometimes he hopes the devil gets him after what he's done. Sometimes he believes Sherlock is the devil, and that may be a worse outcome. Tonight, though, he thinks the devil's already got him, forcing him to relive the last good memory he's has with Sherlock, oly to realize he is the reason there will be no more times as such. Greg stands there now, the foot-triggered mist still rising above the groud, a faux fog to aid his false hopes. The hound was killed, it's skeleten lays there. Greg stares at it, and breaks down, thinking of John staring down at what may have well as been Sherlock's skeleten.

"It's all my fault."

   

 

 

> 4pm, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
> 
> _182 days after the Fall_

_  
_She is livid. She wants to know why it was six months before any word of Sherlock's death got to her. The dominatrix is so angry she takes it out on a client, and makes him leave before she breaks into tears.

Sherlock Holmes has now beaten Irene Adler, twice.

    

 

 

> 3am, John's Flat
> 
> _203 days after the Fall_

_  
_He lays on the floor of his bedroom. The light from his laptop shines atop his desk, illuminating the room in an oddly comforting way. He had been reading old blog entries for the thousandth time. He pulls the duvet from the top of his bed, covers himself with it. John can't be bothered to get up and lay in the actual bed. He is not comfortable there. He childishly thinks that maybe the nightmares wont reach him on the floor.

 It does not work; the carpet is a canvas, and his demons paint on it with blood. John does not sleep for the fourth consecutive night. He does not answer the door for his sister the next day, nor his phone, and she calls the landlord to open the door for her. John is still laying on the floor, believing himself to be laying on a blood soaked rug. He does not want Harry to see him like this. John pulls the blanket over his head, but she finds him anyway.

Harry helps him to dress, and takes him for lunch, and to see the new superhero movie he'd expressed interest in once. He finally sleeps when the lights dim, and is slightly more chipper when they leave.

Harry still does not trust him, and stays the night to make sure he is taking care of himself properly. It has been a long time before he's put up a charade of being okay, but that night he must. He takes a sleeping pill, but it doesn't work. Halfway through the night, Harry comes running into his room, hearing screams. He is having another nightmare, the ones he's been trying to avoid. She sleeps next to him and does not leave his side for the next three days.

  

 

> 11am, The Cemetery
> 
> _214 days after the Fall_

_  
_Molly takes her lunches early, when she can afford time for lunch at all. She tries to visit every day, though her friends tell her it can't be healthy to hold on like so. But she does not do it for herself. She does it for John, who needs to believe that she is mourning just as much as he is. In a way, she is.

She leaves fresh flowers and takes the previous, imagining Sherlock saying something alone the lines of, "What do I need flowers for? I am dead. I cannot see nor appreciate them." And she laughs, hoping it's soon he returns.

"Oh, Sherlock. I hate you sometimes," Molly says in frustration. She wants to tell John terribly, because it makes her sick to see what Sherlock is putting him through. 

"Thank makes two of us, dear." Mrs. Hudson scares Molly accidentally, and they laugh about it. They talk about Sherlock, quietly and hush-hush, because John has followed Molly there before. Mrs. Hudson suggests Molly take John out in an effort to distract him. When Molly suggests this later to him, John politely refuses.

  

 

> 12:32 pm, Ella's Office
> 
> _214 days after the Fall_

_  
_John is not amused. He has come to see Ella again, on the pure notion to get Mycroft to shut up about it. He has been hounding John for months, and John is convinced his usual response is only tolerated because it makes him laugh-- _You should attend a Weight Watchers meeting, Mycroft._

He refuses to speak for the first half hour, until Ella reminds him that he's basically paying her to sit there in silence. He tells her Mycroft is paying her. She gives him a hard glare, and John rolls his eyes. "What is it you want me to say?"

"Start from the beginning."

"We've been over this."

"Seven months ago, John. And you haven't changed a bit."

"I'm fine." He answers all to quickly.

"John." Dissapointment. 

"What, Ella? I'm not ever going to be perfectly happy. Nothing is ever going to be okay. He's dead. It's over. Just leave it." She does not know how to respond, and John knows there is nothing more to the session. He leaves. Ella meets Mycroft later and informs him of what went on. He thanks her, and reluctantly pays her for a useless visit, politely deciling her asking if he'd like to see her on a non-business related outing.

  

 

> 7pm, Mycroft's Home
> 
> _233 days after the Fall_

Anthea has taken to making sure Mycroft is well inside his own home. He is eternally grateful, though he does not show it, and she doesn't show her anger at the fact. He takes note to give her a raise. When she has left him for the night, he retires to his study. Mycroft folds his hands beneath his chin, his mobile sitting on the table beside his chair. He waits for a text from Sherlock, to know he is alright. Mycroft is used to having some sort of surveillance on his younger brother, and it irks him to no end to have to wait for a text that may never come. It has been six days since the last text, while they usually come once a week, Mycroft is still testy.

He falls asleep in his chair, and is woken at an unspeakable hour by the buzzing of his phone. It's not a text, but a call, from an unknown number.

"Yes?" He drawls, knowing better than to let false hope arise in him. He feels it in his stomach anyway.

"He saw me." It is Sherlock on the other end, and Mycroft holds his relieved sigh.

"What did you do?"

"I was in a cab."

"You shouldn't be in London at all."

"I'm not," Sherlock insists. Mycroft is confused, and wonders where John could have possibly gone that he would see Sherlock. "It was only a flash, but there was eye contact made. He may have followed the cab for a considerable amount of blocks."

Mycroft was quiet, weighing what should be done. "It may do better to stay out of the UK entirely."

"You know what I have to do, Mycroft."

"Then get it done correctly," He snaps, and Sherlock hangs up on him. Mycroft immediately finds out where John is, and sends the only person after John that wouldn't slip up.

 

 

> 7am, Belfast, Ireland
> 
> _234 days after the Fall_

_  
_Greg does not wish to remember the plane ride. The stewardess refused to give him more Guinness, and he may have called her a cock sucking whore. A cab drops him when he sees John standing on the side of the road, and he stumbles towards his friend. Greg claps him too-hard on the back, "Jo-o-ohn! Mate!"

John turns towards Greg, and the look on his face sobers Greg immediately. Something was very wrong. He should have paid more attention to Mycroft on the phone, but he hadn't wanted to do this in the first place. This would be the first time John and Greg have seen each other since the funeral. 

"I lost him," John says point-blankly, and Greg can't help but to think that he does not want to have this conversation right now. All he wants is to drown his sorrows, but for the first time in a very long time, he had to not be selfish. John continues, "He was here, and then he was gone."

"He wasn't," Greg says immediately. "We buried Sherlock, John. He's no where but in the ground, and in London, for God's sake. Even if he crawled out of the ground, he wouldn't be in fuckin' Ireland."

John raises an eyebrow at Greg, and looks at his surroundings. "Ireland?" He muses, and Greg's stomach drops. "When did we get to Ireland?"

Greg doesn't answer John, who is clearly delerious. He tries to getJohn to come with him, but John refuses to leave the spot. He insists Sherlock will come back there for him, and Greg harshly says, "Sherlock hasn't come back for you at Baker Street. He's not coming back for you here."

John hits Greg square in the face, and the alcohol blurs Greg's understanding of the situation. They fight until a cop arrives, separating them. They are detained, and given a phone call. Greg means to call Mycroft, though one of his eyes is swollen from John's repeated punches. He clicks on the first name that has an 'M' in it.

The phone rings eight times before the reciever answers. The only indication that the phone was answered at all is a faint breathing sound on the other side. Greg is unsure why Mycroft isn't saying anything, but finally, there is a, "...Hello?"

Greg is too wasted to realize it is not Mycroft's voice on the other end. "You've got to come and bail us out. I am not spending the night in jail, I work for fucking Scotland Yard--" Greg yells towards the guard, though forgets to move the mobile from his mouth--" Hear that?! I'll imprison you in fucking Pentonville for this, you twat!"

John can be heard laughing in the cell next to him. The man on the phone is still silent, and Greg continues, "John and I fought, and now we;re in this slum of a detainment center in fucking Belfast. BELFAST!" He sighs, exasperated. His wife would never take him back after this. "Will you bail us out, Mycroft? Please?"

The man on the phone can be heard smirking on the other end when he answers, "Of course, Detective Inspector. It is what I'm here for, after all. To fix problems. Though I must say, I'm only doing this for the poor old army doctor."

The man hangs up, and Greg and the guard mouth off for a while, until intel is recieved that they have made bail. Greg wonders why Mycroft didn't stay to bring them both back to London, but it occurs to him that he most likely sent someone to do it--like he'd sent Greg to fetch John. How well his plan was working. 

A cabbie drives them to a cheap motel, and Greg takes advantage of the mini-bar. John showers, and Greg falls asleep on one of the beds. John wakes him, though, because Greg wouldn't listen to him earlier. This time, Greg humors the possibility that Sherlock was here, and as John's story unfolds, it becomes more and more apparent how badly John has been affected by the death.

It is the worst hangover he has ever had.

 

 

> 3pm, Buckingham Palace
> 
> _235 days after the Fall_

"Sir, DI Lestrade is here," Anthea calls to Mycroft on the intercom. He replies to tell Greg he is busy with international affairs, and Anthea reminds him that the meeting with the Indian Embassy ended half an hour ago.

Greg enters the office, and explains what happened the day before. He tells Mycroft how worried he is about John, and expresses that maybe someone should watch John full time. He suggests John's sister, though Mycroft stops him. "It may be healthier for the two of you to stay together. You will understand more than Harriet Watson would."

"Me? I can't... I already got him back here for you, and you want me to stay with him now?" Greg stratches his thumb and forefinger across his forehead, trying to beat back the headache. "If I stay in London at all, I'll be going back to the wife."

Mycroft smirks, and before he can hold his tongue he spits, "Please, your wife is never going to take you back. Not after she finds out you spent the night in an Irish jail for fighting--did you think I wouldn't hear? No, Greg, your best bet is to go with John. I would not ask something of you that wouldn't benefit you as well."

"You think making me stay with John is going to be beneficial to me? How--wait, of course you knew. You bailed us out."

Mycroft raises an interested brow, "I did no such thing."

"I called you, you said... well I don't quite remeber what you said, but it was you!" Greg insists.

Mycroft shakes his head, "I did not, but if it pleases you to believe I did, then so be it." They are both quiet, and Greg breaks the silence with asking Mycroft not to say anything to his wife. Mycroft remarks that he's kept silent to Greg's wife for a long time, and that he believes it would be more beneficial for Greg to final the divorce. Greg goes on about how he cannot do that to his kids, but Mycroft raises a valid point tht what he is doing now is not helping his children either.

At end, Greg agrees to propose a flatshare to John. Later, John will agree after some convincing.

* * *

> [text, blocked] Status report? SH
> 
> [text, unknown] Monitored. M

* * *

 


	3. Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has learned to hide things. He refuses to take any medication, and is making no progress in therapeutic methods. He is more agitative and easily misconstrues what is said to him.
> 
> John Watson is more trouble than any of us believed.
> 
> Notes from the file of John H Watson, written by Dr. Thomas Doyle

* * *

Icarus is 

_~flying~_

  too close to the

**sun**

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> 7am, John's Flat
> 
> _239 days after the Fall_

 

John couldn't believe he agreed to this. He did not appreciate this, being monitored closely by someone he believed to be a friend. He knew that Greg had nowhere else to go, and it was why he did agree to it. Because despite himself being a complete mess, he could see Greg was too. After all, they'd spent enough time together separated by a concrete wall in Ireland that bondage between the two no longer bothered him.

Greg put a cup of coffee in front of John, and stammered on about little living things that neither of them cared about, really. He would do anything to keep conversation of Sherlock out of the way, especially now that he was forced to soberly have a charge. It was as much a challenge for him as a detox. He cursed Mycroft for having the upper hand where it did not belong.

 _You'll never replace him,_ John thought to himself, feeling the hair grow on his chest at the bitterness of the coffee Greg had given him. They laughed for three minutes about this.

Neither man was sure of the last time they'd laughed.

 

>  
> 
> 4:46pm, London
> 
> _241 days after the Fall_

 

He sat in a chair, gifted to him. He didn't accept gifts. He gave them. To him, there was no gift without a price, and to be gifted something was odd. Fingers tapped at the tapestry, a deep green embroidered with gold and navy. He was unsure, and that was also odd. He hadn't exactly been given notice, though being quick on his feet was a specialty. He didn't like when others changed the game, after all, he was the changeable one. And the game was his to rule. But when the detective inspector called him, he could only boast to himself.

To himself, simply, because he was supposed to be dead. 

He had to do something about this man. Had to do something to quiet the blubbering of his mouth, Lestrade's disgusting drunkenness costing him a bit more than bail.

 

 

 

> 9:36pm, The Morgue
> 
> _250 days after the Fall_

 

Molly was working late. She was given the chance to get overtime, and considering she didn't have much else to do, she stayed. It was a long day, but it didn't bother her. Until she heard the door creak open.  _John?_ She thought, wondering who else would wander into her sanctuary at this hour.

But it wasn't John. It wasn't Greg, it wasn't Mycroft. It wasn't even bloody Sherlock, who she would have given anything to see verses the face she stared at now.

"You weren't at your flat. Hope you don't mind, I stopped in to see Toby. Poor little fella was lonely this late."

Molly was silent, taking in the fact that he'd gone inside her flat. Not that he hadn't beforehand. In fact, him being inside her flat wasn't exactly uncommon, though that felt like decades ago.

"You're dead," She finally croaked.

"Yes."

"But you're standing there." Cautious, though they both seemed to be. Jim never was anything that he seemed to be.

"Yes."

"But  _w_ _hy_ are you standing there?"

The way he looked at her was disconcerting. Was he actually there, or were John's delusions finally rubbing off on her as well? It couldn't be--he shot himself. In the head. Like Hitler, only with Sherlock as an audience verses his wife. Molly frowned, remembering when she wanted to be Jim's wife. Before she'd known he was gay, before he became the criminal mastermind he was. Before--

"Why? Do you not want to know how?" He grinned, the grin she'd fallen for. He did it on purpose. She thought about throwing the stapler at him, to see if it would hurt, or if it would pass right through him. Pass through the delusion that he must be. The delusion he'd always been. "I suppose it doesn't  _entirely_ matter."

"Why, Jim?" She uttered once more, stern.

"Coffee?" He asked, just like he'd first asked her. He was calm and collected, just like the first night he'd spoken to her. His features were soft, his tone was kind, and though Molly knew she was merely a pawn in whatever scheme he was unfolding, she donned her jacket.

 

 

 

> 11:24pm, John's Flat
> 
> _250 days after the Fall_

 

Something was off. Whether it was the smell in the air, or the fact that John hadn't once called out in his sleep--something was _wrong._ Very, very wrong. Greg sat up in his bed, turned the light on. _Barely midnight._ The floorboards squeaked as he walked towards the door, peeking outside. The lights were off, the night was still. But it wasn't. It was as if every fiber of Greg's being was telling him to flee, to run as fast as he could from London. He shouldn't be here. He knew this, John knew this. Mycroft knew this. Hell, even Molly told him it may not be the brightest idea. But there he was, standing shirtless in the hall, goosebumps ravaging his skin as if they'd never have the chance to again.

They say you know when you're about to die. That there's an intuition, a certain feeling. Greg never believed it, never really bought any sort of superstition. But if it was true, if there was a feeling before imminent death, it was this.

In a rush Greg found his gun, armed it, and sat at the kitchen table. He waited silently for the coffee to brew, wondering if he should wait to dump bourbon in it, or just drink now.

It didn't matter. His hands shook, looking down at the blood that now flowed from the exit wound on his chest.

 

John stood in the doorway. He noticed the bullet sized hole in the window screen. He noticed the smell in the air--of nicotine and coffee. Of Greg. He noticed the 9mm, slowly slipping from the grip of his friend. He barely noticed Greg still breathing, and in an instant the two of them were not in London.

"Greg," John stammered, rushing over to him. His friend coughed, and relief flooded John as he took the gun from him. He didn't even bother disarming it, just got it away from Greg as he did his best to tend to the wound.

 

 

 

> 1:09am, St. Barts
> 
> _251 days after the Fall_

 

"What, exactly, happened?"

"I don't know, Mycroft. Quit asking me."

"There is no one else to ask, John. How in the world did Greg get shot through a window facing a brick wall?!"

John glared at him, "Are you accusing me of something? Because if you are, just fucking say it."

 

* * *

 

 

[text, blocked] Report? SH

[text, unknown] Pending. M

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
